Would you fry the eggs?
Would you kiss me soft,
and hard when required?
Would you feed me books,
would you allow me
… let’s call it daftness,
so I can learn?
Would you pull a blanket
over my shoulders as
Would you make my
favourite dinner when
I am sad, when I am happy,
when I am grateful, when
I am needful?
Would you leave me
be to watch old movies,
The Wizard of Oz
would you let me talk?
Would you let me keep
my socks on?
No? Would you promise
to keep me warm?
Would you be the man?
The protector? For I am
tired of that role,
Would you let me be the
lady, meek and mild,
soft and gentle,
Would you let me be
Would you stand at
my side when I am
the lion, fierce and
protective, would you
stay at my side
Would you let me
In all my abandoned
states of intensity,
passion and raw
Would you let me love you?
And all of my
in the devils mist,
and still the sun
and verge edges
is a must
I’m sure now
be that deep
and rocks are
never as sharp
as we expect
and beyond that
veil, I can
and let the sun
warm my skin…
Pick up the pen
and write the poem,
It’s not rocket science,
It doesn’t have to be a meticulous scribe
Inscripted with archaic
lexicon, the imagery
doesn’t have to paint
a perfect theme,
the rhyme can be
awkward, screwed and
off whack. It doesn’t
have to be unique
or the same. It can
be raw and tough
and bleed from the page
It doesn’t have to
articulate your every
thought that speed
races through your
mind. It doesn’t
have to be as good
as his or her’s
and it doesn’t have
to be liked…
God damn poem,
They decieve us…not man, although they too lie,
I’m talking about books, poems, stories
Love, does not shackle us to endless grey skies,
or cage us behind thick heavy trees.
Love is boundless, without an origin
and missing the tethered rip of an end
alone, is not a facet love will bring
and if it does, my sweet, he is no friend.
Alas, you are caught in despairs whirlwind,
tangled between pain and belief, entrapped
in a splintered labrynth with false King.
Awake now, your golden light has been sapped.
Wait no longer, gather strength and esteem
this is not love, just an endless bad dream.
We don’t look like that, do we? All tanned and toned and perfectly honed, with matching knickies, bra and socks… No not socks, panty hose swaying frocks, and perfect thick, fine, curly, straight long short, natural, dyed locks And breath. We don’t look like that. Do we? Not naturally, surely. Hell I’m all pale skin curves not thin odd socks, hipster pants and runaway hair, tamed and flamed, a wild mane. I suppose I could change. Paint away my creases Click away my knobbly knees Re-root my slither of silver strands Start wearing, pink, frilly pants matching lace bras and sheer tights, nylons, pantyhose…I’d fill them with holes! We don’t look like that, really, do we? Do we? Tell me, do we? I suppose I could use lotions and potions rewind the motions. such an odd notion. To be something we are not, or perhaps we are perhaps I am wrong I should adorn a thong be smooth to the touch hide away my blemishes I should embrace the fuss…
…doesn’t really matter what I think, we grade beauty on personal perception, do they think this is real? Banished blemishes, smoothed out creases, erased slithers of silver…
..men are daft, surely, yes. Do they really care? Or are they too busy toning up picking vests, Oiling up perfect six packs combing through Mc dreamy hair trying also, to be magazine best.
From this angle, she see’s the universe,
the infinite promise of light in dark
and ponders if believing is perverse
Like the damned wishing on eternal stars.
likely soon he’ll skin the flesh from her soul
bleed her dry till she’s tender on the tongue
shelling the carcass upon an old knoll
ripping at rotten scars where life had stung.
And she’ll tumble, doe legged into headlights
the scattered remnants of one’s own soldier
fettered to the darkest skies of twilight
falling nude at the hands of her poacher
Perhaps we pander to the passing planes
Thinking them stars, just spectators of shame.
We grew up on the sharp edge of poverty rebel with a cause of our own repelling authority, society, reality followed a path of wildness sown. They said, we had perfect hips Was good for nothing but having kids One dad, two, three, maybe four Poverty cycle, repeating the poor. We succeeded at failing, came top of our class, Sipped on cider from our childhood flasks. No need to worry, no need to fret, At sixteen we become part of Britain’s great debt. Teachers never bothered, the head didn’t care, No one even noticed when we stopped going there. We wore indifference across our lips prostitute red, layer on layer, glossy and slick. And when time suddenly came, exams taken, Sixteen went past, future forsaken Some of us fell, hips wide and bearing, New life created in a career of caring. Some of us paused in a psychedelic dream Locked between worlds with adulthood to fear.
Me? I had failure at hand, expectations to break, So I picked up the books and read by the lake. They said I couldn’t, I was all hips and blue eyes, that’s all, I accepted their words, I’d most probably fall. I didn’t aim for the top, just a life with a view, A place where I’d happily dream skies of blue. They said “You’ll work in a shop, and not a thing more” And soon I was a manager, they were right for sure… But I kept going forward had stereotypes to destroy, Whispered through days kept my dreams coy. I climbed and rose, walked on painted tippy toes, No place for the poor done good, I wrote my own life show.
There’s a glass roof for women unbreakable you see, An etched line for the men, a reality, not a battle of wits, wisdom or intelligence, No, its a line that demands female defiance…
But poverty has no glass, just hips and glossy red lips, No succeeding, just expectations of failing, You either fail at school and fight for a life, Or fail at babies and become no-ones wife. My roots are seeped in the stench of poverty, Skyscrapers, someone else’s reality, They set a standard, the poor girls target, dreams are only for the rich they say use the gifts God gave you that day…
They said I was good for nothing all blue eyes and hips for kids to bring…
My Dad said, girl, do you see that star? No I said, we ain’t taught to look that far… He said, keep walking till you have that in sight, That my girl, is your glass ceiling, that, is your light…